


Beat to Quarters

by cafemusain



Series: Beat to Quarters Verse [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hideous Early-19th-Century Amalgam, Alternate Universe - Jane Austen, Alternate Universe - Regency, Echoes of Strange & Norrell, Gen, Historical Conjecture, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:39:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4058632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cafemusain/pseuds/cafemusain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a truth universally acknowledged (by Andrastians, at the very least) that in the year 9:30 Dragon, the Maker, in his despair for the creations he had so loved, rescinded the gift and burden of the practice of magic. Studied now only as a historical curiosity, magic has not guided the fate of Thedas for well over eight centuries; Enlightened Age is a modern one of genteel manners, of civility and philosophy. </p><p>One Miss Lavellan, an accomplished young lady of almost-respectable family, quite enjoys her life of happy near-gentility, so when several most shocking and disconcerting things occur, which indicate the possible resurgence of magickal forces within the universe, she is most vexed to be called upon to put things to rights. In her journeys she will encounter ships-of-the-line (and a pirate who outsmarts them), nearly-tamed dragons, men who purport to be gods, and bald persons of questionable moral character sleeping beneath hedges; elegant hands which heretofore only played the pianoforte will guide the fate of Thedas as a whole--but not without a very smart bonnet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Ellana Lavellan, handsome, clever, and charming, with a comfortable home in Highever and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence without suffering the disadvantages so often accorded those of her race; and had lived nearly twenty-four years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.

She was the eldest daughter of a successful merchant, whose husband had been born into one of those happy few Elven families to have found respectability, if not gentility, among the ranks of their human countrymen. A brother had been obliging enough to bless the family three years before she herself had come into the world, and as he tended the family affairs with his mother, she was free to pursue whatever best pleased her. Thus far, it seemed to please her to laugh with her friends, to dance frequently with handsome young gentlemen, and to make indifferent study of no area in particular.

In recent months it had come into her mother’s head that it was long since time for Miss Lavellan to be joined with another in matrimony, and should be sent to live with the cousin of her father, one Mr Mahanon Lavellan of Redcliffe, where there was a far greater population of eligible young Elves from which to choose. An eminently respectable scholar, he was tutor to the son of the Arl himself, kept a comfortable home in a genteel quarter of the town, and had on more than one occasion offered to have his young cousin to stay and to bring her among his acquaintance. Mrs Lavellan further hoped he would help direct her daughter’s course of self-education, for though she was blessed with a quick mind, she had very little direction and rarely applied herself to anything which did not please her. It was thus settled that she was to go into his neighborhood, and find herself a spouse and an occupation.

Possessed of a sociable temperament, other than the truly shocking condition of the roads she had little difficulty with this transition. Her cousin was a bachelor of perhaps 50 years, as learned and amusing as she remembered him, and welcomed the presence of a young person in his home. That she brought with her a gift of neckcloths imported from Antiva quite secured his familial attachment to his young relative, he being particular in matters of dress and appreciative of fine things. Deemed adequately outfitted, she was very soon taken among his acquaintance and acquitted herself well enough to establish several friendly new connections.

It was with these acquaintances, one Ghilani Athim and Assanera Alerion, both of whom were approximately equal to her in age, that she had arranged to take a walk in the countryside outside of Redcliffe, along the side of the lake. Mr Athim had driven them to the appointed parklands (rightly belonging to the Castle, but open to public exploration) in his gig, though there was some debate as to whether they should have asked for the loan of Miss Alerion’s brother’s phaeton, for the weather boded ill and the gig had no top.

“For myself I never mind a little rain,” Ellana said as they strolled by the lake, “though it would quite ruin your lovely muslin walking-dress, Miss Assanera.” Miss Alerion nodded in acknowledgment with a smile; as eager as she had been on the ride over to inform them it was new, it was indeed a becoming garment.

“It is kind in you to compliment it, Miss Lavellan, though I am sure our housekeeper could find a way to rescue it were the worst to happen, and Mamae is very clever with a needle--” Ellana took this opportunity to gaze out over the lake, observing their surroundings and offering occasional commentary as her friends made conversation. It was different to home, the eponymous red cliffs rising dramatically over the town and cradling the Castle. She found she missed the freshness of the sea-breezes and the grace of the Northern-influenced architecture, though as Redcliffe was smaller there was much more of nature to be found nearby. Her father liked to say that “an Elf ought to be able to see the open sky every so often, and that she would lose touch with the Creators, choosing to remain cooped up in the city as she did.” Some few Elves yet chose to live as nomads, as their Dalish ancestors had, but they were in Orlais, and Ellana did not see that it was so very important to stain one’s clothes with grass and swat at insects all day to feel sufficiently Elven. Surely it could not be genteel to scamper about barefoot and kill rabbits and, if the rumors were to be believed, tattoo one’s face. No, Ellana Lavellan was a town mouse, pretty though the view from here might be.

Her idle observation did, however, yield some fruit, in that she realized the clouds were gathering quite ominously. It was unanimously decided that they should return to the waiting gig and make their way back to Redcliffe before the sky followed through on its threat and doused them all thoroughly. As Mr Athim tended to the equipping of the horses and gig, Ellana felt her attention begin to wander again; glancing towards the woodlands with no especial goal she reviewed the week’s engagements. They were to dine with some colleagues of her cousin’s the following evening, and the town assembly was to take place later in the week. She was to shop for a new shawl with Miss Alerion, and--

Distantly, she heard someone calling her name, but for the life of her could not recall who might be doing so. When had she walked so far from the path? Turning, she could no longer see her friends behind the hedges that lined the road; had she wandered in? Everything seemed so soothingly green--verdant. Verdant, vegetation, veg-- _vegara, vegaremah, venemah, vhenan…_

There was a man sleeping beneath the hedgerow.

Her focus returned in an instant, as though she had been doused in cold water. Gracious, what had she been thinking? She called back to her friends just as Mr Athim peered through the bushes, brow furrowed. By way of explanation, she could only inform him that “there was a man beneath the hedges,” and, almost helpessly, turn to consider the man again. His back was to them, but the elegant point of an ear shewed against a perfectly bald head and his chest rose and fell in indication that he had not yet gone the way of all flesh.

“Miss Lavellan?” Ghilani called gently, “are you entirely sure you should be--”

It was about to rain, and no body should wake up in the rain; she might at least rouse him. Her left hand had made it halfway to his shoulder before she realized she had reached for him, but never found its intended destination, for when she looked down her wrist was clutched firmly in his hand. At this untoward and unexpected contact--she could not in fact remember seeing him move his hand at all--a frightening shock seared through her entire body, a sensation within her bones and beneath her skin that felt numb and overwhelmingly alive all at once, standing all her hairs on end. A much more immediate pain erupted when he turned to face her, drawing himself up only far enough to glance over his shoulder like a feral creature turning from his kill, her wrist still clutched painfully tight.

“You would do best to leave me be, _da’len_ ,” the man growled, and Ellana wrenched her hand away as though she had been burnt. Her deepest instincts told her that it would be in her best interest to heed his warning.

“Goodness, I did not mean to--” she found that her body had been left trembling, that her legs shook, and as she backed away she was glad of Ghilani’s help, a steadying hand at her arm, drawing her upward.

“What a dashed unpleasant man,” he exclaimed, and she found it was of immense help to focus on the sound of his voice. “Come, Miss Lavellan, the horses are ready, and we shall leave this _fellow_ to his... shrubbery.” Taking his elbow, she exited the hedges at his side and shook her head to clear it. What a queer interlude! Looking back over her shoulder, she saw nothing but foliage, and took her seat upon the equipage with her escort. Miss Alerion looked in her direction with mild interest, and Ellana smiled sheepishly. “Woolgathering, I’m afraid. Come now! We must make time if we wish to gain the city gates in advance of the weather!”

Ghilani regarded her intently, but said nothing as he urged the horses into motion. She flexed her left hand, turning it and considering each digit as Miss Alerion chattered away. The odd sensation faded, and by the time they had made half the distance to Redcliffe, she had nearly forgotten the strange happenings altogether and was thoroughly engaged in devising plans for the upcoming assembly.

As they crossed under the cullis gate of the old town walls, the heavens split and it began to rain in earnest.

She hoped the man was not too wet.


	2. In which Miss Lavellan is Thoroughly Vexed by Mysterious Goings-on, and there is a Cat

The unfortunate weather persisted for the best part of a week. Though she had lived on the Fereldan coast for her entire life, it seemed she had quite underestimated the south. The storms were the worst she had seen in her life, the lake roiling over and the streets rendered so impassable that the assembly was postponed, much to the disappointment of the young people; even Cousin Mahanon insisted he had never known the weather to be so shocking, and he had lived here a great many years.

Thus confined, Ellana began to think wistfully of clear skies, feeling positively _Elvhen_ in her sudden yearning for the outdoors. It was to this cabin-fever that she attributed the strange dreams; never a particularly vivid dreamer, she was astonished by the curious sensation that she had not slept at all, only walked and walked, though she knew not where. She had the vague recollection of speaking to someone, a man, or perhaps a wolf--before the dream ebbed away as they always did in the morning. Today she was to help her cousin’s housekeeper bake the week’s bread, and Mrs Lenar did not like to be kept waiting.

Being a confirmed bachelor, Cousin Mahanon had engaged the services of an aged Elven widow to keep his house for him soon after he had found himself in a position to possess that house. She was a no-nonsense sort of person, and with only one permanent inhabitant (who was neat in his habits) the upkeep of the house caused her little trouble. A maid-of-all-work came once a week to do the heaviest cleaning, but the sprightly Mrs Lenar rose daily to lay the fires and prepare the breakfast and tend to all the little chores of running of a small household. Ellana liked her very much, though the sentiment did not seem to be returned, and did her best to be a helpful house-guest. She helped with the bread and the laundry and the mending at home, and did not see why she should not do so here.

Descending the stair to enter the kitchen once she had appointed herself in an old day-dress, she realized that today her help might not be enough. Her cousin had left, called to his duty at the Castle despite the inclement weather, and Mrs Lenar’s entreaties to the Dread Wolf to take the bread dough were echoing throughout the whole ground floor of the house.

“I do not know what I shall do, Miss Ellana, truly I do not; the yeast has gone and the neighbor is an unfriendly old crone who will not share, and the bakery-bread is a horrific expense. I fully blame this rain, for I have never in my life--if you would open the door, Miss--never in my life had so much trouble about the house as these last days--Creators know Messere Mahanon hates the damp--” she complained roundly, requiring only a listening ear, and Ellana obligingly opened the door to the alley behind the house that Mrs Lenar might toss the offending dough in with the rest of the household refuse. Unfortunately when the door opened something grey streaked through the offered entrance, around Mrs Lenar’s feet, and across the floor, prompting a screech of rage from the woman. “And Dread Wolf _take that cat_!”

Mrs Lenar set the dough down upon the table to barrel off after the cat, and Ellana thought it best not to observe she seemed to be asking the Dread Wolf to take a great number of hand-me-downs this morning. Sparing the dough one last glance--it was quite flat--she followed into the living room, where Mrs Lenar seemed to be yelling at a chaise.

Ellana offered that she might fetch the cat out, and let Mrs Lenar return to the question of the week’s bread--her sister had a cat, so she was quite used to them--no trouble at all--yes, she was indeed sure she would not be mauled by the creature. It seemed the thing had been sneaking into the house all week, trying to get out of the rain, one supposed, where until now it had been perfectly content to take scraps from all the street’s kitchen-waste piles.

Ellana knelt and peered beneath the chaise. The cat was small and tri-colored, perfectly ordinary and quite well-kept for the resident of an alley. A pair of large green eyes stared back at her, and Ellana drew back to allow the creature some space. Checking to be sure Mrs Lenar had returned to the kitchen, she whispered conspiratorially in the direction of the furniture that it was “quite alright, for I should hide beneath a chaise if Mrs Lenar bellowed at me so, and I had been in the rain so very long. You might come out any time you choose, and I shall fetch you some cheese and a place before the kitchen-fire, if you are very good and the rain has not stopped.” For a moment she thought it perhaps strange she was talking to a chair, but in all truth she had been much sillier before with a far greater audience. She continued her mild chatter, periodically peeking beneath the chaise to regard the creature.

The cat came out in fractions of inches, but once freed she quite happily butted her head against Ellana’s legs, which was very gratifying. “How pleasant it is to meet with a cat who listens to instructions,” she said, scratching behind soft ears and under a white chin, to the cat’s great delight if her purring were anything to go by, “and how pretty you are; I own I have never been one to--” This pleasant interlude was interrupted by a very loud scream from the kitchen, which Ellana rose to investigate. “I do not know if I can stand to have this morning grow any more eventful,” she observed mildly, and the cat followed her back through the house. “Mrs Lenar, whatever is the--”

“It rose!” Mrs Lenar had pressed her back to the wall as if to get as far from the dough as possible. “Look at it! You saw it before, did you not? Creators preserve me, it was flat as a flounder, sitting there on that table!” Turning her attention to the table as the cat twined around her legs and purred, Ellana saw it was true; the dough had gone from a dense mass to as light and fluffy a dough as ever Ellana had ever seen. How very curious! Perhaps, she thought, it had been a delayed reaction? She had never heard of bread rising so quickly, and to judge by her reaction, nor had Mrs Lenar. “I shall not touch it, I vow I shall not touch that bread, Miss Ellana, for it cannot be natural.”

She reached for the cat, who was happy enough to be gathered into her arms, and attempted to hand her to Mrs Lenar. “Here, give her something to eat and let her dry by the fire until the weather clears some,” she began, but the cat protested most violently, and the shaken Mrs Lenar did not appreciate being nearly-clawed, and cried out in frustration.

“If you will have the alley-cat in the kitchen, and that unnatural dough besides, you shall have to bake the bread yourself, and I shall gather the linens for mending,” she pronounced, with a particular sort of domestic finality that Ellana thought it wisest to heed. Seeking out some scraps she settled the cat by the fire and returned to the task at hand, trying with limited success to separate the dough into neat loaves--though she could hardly be considered gently bred, her upbringing had prepared her best for lending a supportive hand in domestic upkeep, rather than leading the charge herself, and she had always left the more technical tasks to their own housekeeper. It was propriety, rather than pride, that had prevented her from learning these tasks in full, but other than slightly uncomely loaves, which earned her looks from both the housekeeper (as they left the oven) and her cousin (as they sat down to dine), there was nothing very much the matter with them and she deemed the endeavor a success. The kneading had made her left hand feel awfully strange, however, and she was prevented from practicing upon the pianoforte by the cramps and aches in it, choosing instead to read in the bay-window at the front of the sitting-room. Her cousin had no lack of books, and she absently selected a large leatherbound tome on the former Circle Towers, on top of which she promptly proceeded to fall asleep.

Much of the afternoon had passed in the haze of half-sleep before she felt her Cousin’s gentle hand shaking her to wakefulness. “I had a dream,” she pronounced before he could speak, “a dream I could speak to spirits, but I cannot recall what we spoke of,” and looking at his face she felt the dream fade as she shook her head. “Mythal’s mercy, what a silly thing to say!”

“By all means, Cousin, dream your way through your dinner, but I thought it polite to tell you I was taking mine,” he said with a quirk of his mouth, and she laughed and rose to follow him, as she walked ascertaining that yes, he had been home for quite a while, and yes, he had attempted to wake her earlier without success, and no, he did not think her lazy for sleeping the day away instead of spending it in study. As they were dining en famille, it was silly to change, and they settled right into the meal Mrs Lenar had laid out.

“It was the very strangest thing, Cousin…” And so between bites she related with minimal embellishment the events of the day as they stood before she had fallen asleep--a lively and engaging storyteller, she tried to give what was at heart the relation of a domestic anecdote some interest. Her cousin smiled at the anticipated moments, pronounced it “very odd indeed,” and moved forward in his thoughts. “You are not the only one whose day has been strange,” he said, setting his silverware down nearly and brushing off the napkin tucked into his waistcoat. “The castle is awash with the oddest rumors. A farmer came today and told the Arl his daughter had set her brother’s hair on fire,” he began, and proceeded to take several bites of peas, appearing to savor the knowledge that she was anticipating the continuation as much as the vegetable in question.

“Surely,” Ellana urged, brow furrowing exactly as he surely wished it to, “a dispute between two siblings--even one so violent--could be solved by the father.” He took another bite with no particular haste and looked up at her, eyes bright with a secret.

“She was in another room when it happened.”

“Is it not possible he was near a candle, or some spark?”

“He was not, besides which the sister insisted it was her own doing, that her ‘dream-friend’ had taught her to do it.”

“How curious!” Every body knew that magic had been impossible for the best part of nine centuries. Every few decades the Chantry was obligated to make a heretic out of whatever person or persons attempted to convince others that magic had been returned to them; the entirety of the Tevinter Chantry had been excommunicated some time after the fifth self-proclaimed “Magister”. In any case these misguided individuals inevitably shewed themselves false, and for the farmer’s story to be true was nearly as unlikely, to Ellana’s mind, as a troupe of giant spiders dancing a tarantella on Satinalia. Her own dreams did not for an instant cross her mind, so preposterous was the very notion of magic’s being the explanation. “Did the sister explain why she would do such a thing?”

“Some childish dispute, I imagine. Of course the Chantry will prove it to be a falsehood, as they always do in these affairs--one hopes there will not be any unpleasantness.”

This much surprised Ellana, who had never yet known of anyone to have been accused of practicing magic, aside from the more notorious incidents in the dusty annals of history. “Surely there is some explanation; does this happen often?”

“Not for the last decade, as best I can recall, and that was somewhere in Orlais. They always talk of sending Templars for symbolism, though they’re as likely to tell magic from trickery as a Dwarf; I do not think it will come to much.”

Such assurance from an older relative was satisfactory for Ellana, and they moved on to pleasanter topics, chief among them the anticipated ball at the assembly rooms. Their repast completed, they retired to the sitting-room and took turns reading from a book of modern Elven poetry, printed in runic for the better comprehension of Elves who had not chosen to pursue study of the ancient language. Generally a competent reader with a fair ear for the tongue, she could not seem to concentrate, the discrepancy between alphabet and content hindering rather than helping (though she did not, in fact, know the Elven system of writing), to say nothing of the melody which would not quit its playing in her head. She asked if it was much too late for music, to which her cousin responded in the negative, and she sat down to the small spinet he kept well-tuned. “Nothing too festive, mind you, Cousin--it does not do to get one’s blood up before bed.”

Making a sound of acknowledgment, she floated her fingers over the keys for a moment, trying to recall what it was she had been hearing in the back of her mind all night. It was a gentle melody, almost like a lullaby--she supposed she must have learnt it from her musical tutor long ago, for the unconscious ease with which it came to her. How odd--she could not recall doing so--her fingers seemed to move of their own accord--she was quite perplexed.

“What is that piece? I do not recognize it, and I have heard enough young people exhibit their _accomplishments_ to be versed in the usual repertoire,” her cousin asked, once her hands had stilled mid-measure.

“Do you know I am not so very certain? I must have learnt it long ago, and have quite forgot the title.” At this she bade him a good evening, feeling suddenly quite tired despite her sleep in the afternoon. Remembering her odd dreams, she placed a her journal (nearly-empty, for she could never remember to write in it) at her bedside and readied herself for slumber.

It was not an easy rest.

She recalled running, and a curious green light, and a man beckoning to her, then chasing her when she turned away, and when she looked back it was a monstrous creature at her heels; her waking self could feel, in that curious way dreamers do, the sheets twisting around her legs, which did not help when her dreaming self wished to run. When she woke it was again with the feeling she had not slept at all, and judging by the light she had risen long before her customary hour.

With a frustrated sigh she donned her robe, wishing to take breakfast with her cousin if she was to be up so early. She could leave her morning ablutions and dress for afterward. As it transpired, her cousin was quite shocked by her appearance in the dining-room, where he was buttering a roll, which he dropped as his face drained of color.

“I am sorry for the state of my dress; for I hardly slept and wished to take a little tea in hopes it might--” “Cousin Ellana,” he interrupted firmly, “it is not your clothes which perturb me so--you might wish to regard yourself in the mirror.”

She had suspected he might be a little surprized, but this reaction was beyond all reason, even for a bachelor of his age. It was with some irritation that she turned to the mirror that hung above the side-board. “Is there something quite wrong with--” At this time, she interrupted herself with a shriek of horror, for in the night her hair (still in a plait for sleeping) had given up the perfectly normal dark brown color it had been her whole life, and taken up a mantle of palest white. “I am ruined!” she cried, turning to him and upsetting a dish of butter in the process. “I am a freak!” Long-unused to dealing in matters of youthful vanity, his halting attempts to reassure her fell on deaf ears, as she turned back to the mirror, and then back to him again. “I look old-fashioned,” she hissed, “for I cannot go to the assembly-rooms looking like an Orlesian from 30 years ago!” He thought it kindest to suppress his amusement at the fact that, from a quite unexplainable change in hair color, she had first processed its effect on her social prospects. Though some of his generation still preferred to wear powdered wigs, she was right in assuming it would make her appear quite out-of-date.

He could offer little explanation--had she eaten something strange--might she have bathed with laundering-soap, or exerted herself the day before, and she could only think of the very odd dreams which she had been having, which did not make any sense at _all_.

“You are--that is..” she struggled for a moment to be as politic as possible, “might you have any advice in the arena of… altering one’s hair color?”

His eyebrows, silvery white, shot upwards. “I have never in my life taken it upon myself to darken my hair once it began to grey--you have come to quite the wrong man,” he said hastily, and rose, making himself look very busy indeed. “I am expected at the Castle, you understand, Cousin--perhaps Mrs Lenar will have advice for you--I am very sorry, but I must go.”

He left her to the mirror, which she staunchly avoided as she dressed herself. Sitting before her dressing-table she sighed, setting the hand-mirror against the wall that she might see the damage as she unplaited the now-pale tresses.

At first, she was convinced that her looks were quite ruined, for though she was no great beauty she was becoming enough, and took pride in her fashionable mass of dark hair, and pretty oval face. The change made the cursed freckles on her nose stand out against her skin, and gave her a sort of wan look that one associated with novel heroines and the daughters of Orlesian aristocrats, who thought it fashionable to look like novel heroines--never something she had aspired to or cultivated.

In an hour of contemplation she had determined that, while it brought out her blemishes, it also highlighted her youthful bloom, elevating her complexion to appear quite delicate, where before it had only been reasonably fresh, and her features seemed to stand out strongly, though there was nothing to do for the color, which in some lights seemed a very pale and sickly blonde.

In the next hour, she had decided she would simply have to make a trend of it. If she acted as though nothing were wrong, nobody would think anything was wrong, and they would be left to assume it was they who were behind the times. She would only have to be sure that none of her gowns washed out her new coloring. Thus assured she could again appear in public without fear of shame, she put her hair up in her usual knot, and descended the stairs, where she quite shocked Mrs Lenar.

Again Miss Lavellan had convinced herself nothing was amiss, and set forth into the world as if nothing at all had happened to cause her the least worry. There were parties to be attended, and shawls to be purchased, and picnics to be planned now that the rain seemed to be abating. To her mind, there was nothing at all to be gained in deviating from her usual routine.

It would not do to seem out of the ordinary, after all.


	3. In which a ball is attended, and Miss Lavellan swoons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Redcliffe assembly-rooms were much larger than those in Highever, well-lit and well-appointed; they had arrived at a fashionable enough hour to be already crushed in the crowd. A small orchestra played a bright country tune, and in the general din of the festive atmosphere she felt her customary high spirits return to her. 
> 
> “There’s old Byrne, already drunk as a wheelbarrow--” “--would it be very improper to dance with him twice--” “--have you heard that Alistair Fitzroy is here? Did you see him?” “and she in Antivan silk, when of course everyone knows she hasn’t a feather to fly with--” “--will not come, I know it--”

When the morning of the assembly dawned, Ellana could barely rouse herself to greet it. Her dreams had increased in intensity and frequency, but perversely she found herself even less able to remember them; consulting the journal she had left by her bedside presented her with nothing but vague, unrecognizable charcoal scribblings. Sometimes she thought she might make out some sensible word, but it escaped her before she could pin it down. She cheered herself with the thought that the last of the rain had cleared away, setting to her preparations in the knowledge that today, she was excused from all responsibilities but her own beautification. A long bath (and a preparation of raw potato for her puffy eyes) would do her good.

A brief moment must be taken here to illuminate the particular circumstances of Redcliffe’s assembly-rooms and the balls held therein. Elves in Ferelden having been afforded more freedoms than their neighbors for much longer, many had risen to such heights of prosperity that they might comfortably pursue some of the leisure-activities of their human superiors. A great number traced their ancestry to the old Dalish clans, or to the Great Wave of Tevinter refugees that had crossed the Waking Sea in 9:30 Dragon Age, and populations of Elves had grown in those cities along the coasts since that time. Redcliffe, having never been great enough in population to support a true Alienage, offered less barriers to peaceful coexistence than other cities, and was further from the coast and from Tevinter hunters looking to reclaim their property. Its Elven citizens had played an important role in its growth from town to city, and were by far the most cultivated (and it must be said, richest) in the realm, as a whole, so when the old town hall had burnt half a century before, they had contributed funds in accordance with their population to rebuild it, complete with a set of assembly-rooms as fine as any in Orlais or the Free Marches.

This contribution secured the Elves’ position in Redcliffe society; namely, it was the only Assembly of its size in that country (or any other) that allowed Elven subscribers and guests to take equal standing with their human counterparts. In Highever the assembly balls were held on separate nights for each group, and in Amaranthine the Elves had built their own separate rooms for the purpose. Denerim, full of the free Elven poor and petitioners for freedom, had few Elves in respectable trade and thus no opportunities for Elves to attend subscription balls at all.

It was to be Ellana’s first ball in mixed company. She doubted that it would be much different to the balls at home, except perhaps she would feel shorter than usual in the room--it was not unheard of but remained rare for a human and an Elf to partner in the dancing, and Cousin Mahanon said that most of the attendees kept to their own circles. Nonetheless the Aviators from the nearby dragon covert had indicated it was their intention to be in attendance, as had a party from the Castle, and recently the matrons of the city had decided to allow the band to play one Marcher Waltz in the course of the evening; she looked forward to the diversion exceedingly and was glad the weather had not resulted in its cancellation.

With no sisters to help her, she put her own hair in curling-papers and drew her own bath in the kitchen so as not to inconvenience Mrs Lenar; she lingered so long in the tub that she was surprized it had not gone cold, and soon scampered upstairs to avoid meeting her cousin upon his return from work, which would be early in anticipation of the evening’s events. The alley-cat, who had apparently taken up permanent residence, dozed peacefully by her windowsill as she dressed her hair, almost now used to seeing a cloud of white whenever she looked into a mirror.

“And how is the little ghost,” her cousin called as he knocked on the doorjamb (the door itself being open). Ellana turned with a dramatic irritated sigh, arms still engaged in pinning curls into place, to see him in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, hair neatly brushed back.

“Still among the living, I thank you,” she responded before returning her attention to the mirror. “The green or the printed muslin, do you think?”

In the reflection she saw him consider the two gowns she had laid out upon the bed. “The green taffeta, I think. It will show your eyes to better advantage--would you help with my cuffs when you are quite ready?” She acquiesced and he left her to finish her toilette. Deeming the effect satisfactory, she gathered her gloves and reticule and went to argue in vain that not a single person would notice if her cousin’s cravat-pin did not match his cufflinks.

The Redcliffe assembly-rooms were much larger than those in Highever, well-lit and well-appointed; they had arrived at a fashionable enough hour to be already crushed in the crowd. A small orchestra played a bright country tune, and in the general din of the festive atmosphere she felt her customary high spirits return to her. Cousin Mahanon had promised not to abandon her for the card-room until she had found her friends, which she now realized would be easier said than done; mercifully, Miss Alerion was wearing an astonishingly high plume of feathers in her dark hair, so the conundrum at hand quickly became finding a way to catch her attention and get to her side.

“There’s old Byrne, already drunk as a wheelbarrow--” “--would it be very improper to dance with him twice--” “--have you heard that Alistair Fitzroy is here? Did you see him?” “and she in Antivan silk, when of course  _everyone_  knows she hasn’t a feather to fly with--” “--will not come, I know it--”

Loud conversations whirled around her as she pressed through the crush to her friend, hoping to simply reach Assanera before she was called away from her position next the dance floor, not being close enough to be made heard, and not wishing to wave her fan and make a spectacle of herself. Cousin Mahanon followed diligently, his height affording him the opportunity to take two glasses of wine from a passing tray, one of which he gave to Ellana with a gentle reminder that she “should not spill upon her gown, for the stain would not come out for love nor money.”

“Yes, thank you Cousin, I am not seven--Assanera!”

It took her friend a moment to turn and cry out, “Ellana!,” not having seen her since before her hair had changed. “Your hair is..” The man beside her--obviously her brother, to judge by the similar noses and impetuous smiles--proclaimed it “very bold indeed!” This was little comfort, as the young man in question was dressed so badly that Ellana concluded it  _must_  be intentional. Perhaps he was emulating the Dalish poets? She had little time to consider before he was being introduced to her as one Gull Alerion--indeed the brother of her friend. “A pleasure, Miss Lavellan,” he acknowledged with a gracious bow, turning his attention to Cousin Mahanon, who had been his tutor, and leaving her to speak with his sister.

“I wonder at your hair,” Assanera said, snapping open her fan and elbowing a passing human as she waved it frantically to stave off the truly astonishing heat of the room, and continued with a conspiratorial smile, “but of course you will explain later; I have heard Alistair Fitzroy is here, and you must help me find a way for us to be introduced.”

Alistair Fitzroy, the acknowledged by-blow of King Maric (Maker rest his soul), was something of a curious figure in the town. His mother and step-father were considered respectable enough to socialize with the Arl’s family, but they (and he) lived generally in a retired way in a house in the nearby countryside. Ellana had to assume that he would be surrounded with a cloud of young ladies vying for his attention, particularly as the family was said to have an “eye for ears.”

She heard Mahanon give a huff of long-suffering irritation from behind her before she could respond to her friend. “I have known you since you were an inattentive pupil in short pants, Gulliver Alerion; you will have better luck haranguing my cousin into dancing.” Ellana did not laugh at her cousin’s obvious manipulation of the situation, for he had made it impossible for Mr Alerion to demur without seeming rude, but it was a near thing. Mr Alerion did not appear to mind in the least, and his pursuit of her relative must not have been a serious one, because he turned his bright smile in her direction.

“Come then, Miss Lavellan--will you grant me the next set?” She promised that she would do so, and Assanera proclaimed her delight in the situation, for she had promised it to Ghilani, and she should like nothing better than for all of them to all be friends, as four was a better number than three.

“I do not see your younger sister,” remarked Mahanon to the two Alerions, “is she dancing? She must be out of the schoolroom by now.” “Myfanwy has gone to stay with our relations in the Free United Dales, and Mamae will tell you, it was the very devil arranging her pass-port…”

Ellana regarded the assembly, feeling a sort of fog roll over her mind. The music faded, and she had the queerest sensation that she was somewhere else altogether, her vision blurring as the floral wall-paper began to resemble true plants, roots covering her feet--

“And you, Miss Ellana?” She snapped back to reality at once. “Do you think Orlais will allow the Dales their peace this time?”

“Oh, it is surely all bluster and pride, as it usually is with Orlais. I do not think they will dare invade again, not with the Alliance, and not after Halamshiral. ” “There had been unrest for years; I suppose it was simply the last straw.” Mahanon took his leave, and the topic of the recent threats of violence on the Dalish borders carried them until the band took up their instruments for the Highever Reel, and she and Mr Alerion took their places in the line.

“Have you ever danced the reel with someone from Highever, Mr Alerion?”

“I have not--though the song says you will ‘send me reeling,’ which I always thought a very twee sort of reference.”

“I do not think the person who wrote the song could have been from Highever, but the sentiment is true enough. Do try not to be left behind,” she said as the music began, and they shared a grin. As it transpired, he managed admirably, and they even garnered some applause when it was their turn to go down the line. Ellana loved dancing, as she loved any cheerful diversion, and Mr Alerion seemed to share her sentiment. Both were out of breath by the time their feet finally stilled, laughing gaily despite it. They went arm-in-arm to retrieve their drinks, only to find Mahanon awaiting Ellana with a good-looking Elven woman of approximately his age and a tall, blonde human man of Ellana’s own.

“Ah, Cousin--may I present to you Mrs Fiona Duncan and her son, Alistair Fitzroy? Fiona, Alistair, this is my cousin, Ellana Lavellan, and another former pupil of mine, Gulliver Alerion.”

So it was true--King Maric had fathered a side-slip with an Elf. Well, all the better, for now she could be reasonably sure he would not be impolite on that account. Ellana sank a curtsey, unsure exactly how low it should be given his status, which was rather complex, and as she had never been introduced to a human of his standing; he, however, did not seem to stand on ceremony at all, and shook her hand with a smile once she rose. “A pleasure--”

“And it is returned, I assure, you, but I believe my sister is either suffering an apoplexy or trying to get my attention: you will excuse me.” Mr Alerion exited graciously, and Ellana would later swear she saw Assanera hit him with her fan for passing up the opportunity to bring her into the conversation.

Cousin Mahanon looked very pleased with himself for arranging this introduction. “I was Mr Fitzroy’s tutor before I was young Master Connor’s,” he explained, which Ellana supposed made sense. She had heard her cousin called Hahren Lavellan and Master Lavellan by most of the people they met in Redcliffe; he was clearly a respected figure. As the King’s son, Mr Fitzroy would have been afforded lessons with a private tutor, instead of attending a village school, for propriety’s sake if nothing else.

“And I was a shockingly indifferent student,” the man in question responded, cheerfully nodding at his former teacher, “though I have it on good authority that my cousin Connor is a much quicker study.” His manner was all that was amiable, his posture not quite easy, his sideways smile quite charming. Ellana liked him immensely.

“You will hear no judgment on that account from me, Mr Fitzroy--I think my cousin yet despairs of my learning anything of use from him,” she responded, and the laugh it procured from him was as gratifying as it was unexpectedly loud.

“Connor Guerrin is a better student than either of you, it’s true, though he’s of an age to weasel out of lessons and listen at his father’s study door, much as you did, Alistair,” Mahanon said.

“I suppose Arl Eamon must be meeting with plenty of messengers lately,” Mrs Duncan responded, her voice low and soothing, with a hint of an Orlesian accent. “With the Dalish border disputes and all the unpleasantness in Tevinter.”

“Is there unpleasantness in Tevinter?” Ellana asked, adding that she had not seen anything about it in the news-papers, and Cousin Mahanon had the Denerim editions posted down to them weekly.

“It would not be in the news-papers yet,” Mr Fitzroy clarified. “It seems there’s been a coup in Minrathous, and the circumstances are… mysterious, to say the least.”

“It would not be in the news-papers at  _all_ : some are claiming there’s a Magister involved.” Talk of magic always spread fast but erratically, as the Chantry suppressed it as heresy, and the government cooperated for fear of inciting panic.

“Of course, someone claims there is a Magister involved every time there is unpleasantness in Tevinter,” said Mr Fitzroy, one side of his mouth quirking up, “and it’s dull talk for a ballroom, in any case. I am promised to another acquaintance for the next set, but perhaps Miss Lavellan would honor me with the Cotillion?”

The attention of such a man made her evening a success: she danced all but one set, and that the opening one she had missed, and made the acquaintance of any body important her cousin had not already brought to her attention. She danced twice with Mr Fitzroy, once with Assanera, another with her brother, and the Marcher Waltz with one Captain Hawke of His Majesty’s Dragon Champion, unknowingly to the displeasure of Hawke’s partner, whom she met afterward, and who insisted that he did not dance. This strange interlude over, she finished the night with various acquaintances, drank a great many glasses of wine for someone who spent so much time on the dance floor, and managed to keep her cousin from taking them home until the ball was quite ended in the wee hours of the morning.

“I confess I do not know if my flush is from the drink or the dancing,” she proclaimed as Mahanon helped her light from the carriage in front of the house, “but my slippers are worn through so it must--”

Mrs Lenar, who they had instructed not to wait up, opened the door before they reached it, quite shocking Mahanon, who had consumed plenty of port at the card-tables on his own, and had reached for the latch already. “Mrs Lenar, what in mercy’s name--”

“There is a… there is a  _man_  awaiting you in the sitting-room,” she said, looking distressed, as she showed them in and removed their coats.

“A man? Could you not have sent him away? It’s gone 2 in the morning, woman!”

She placed her hands on her hips, squaring off against her much-taller employer. “If you do not think I tried, you’ve underestimated me, but he would insist, and said he was an old colleague of yours, though he does not look like any scholar  _I_  ever saw.” Her tone indicated she had seen quite a number of such persons, though in truth Mahanon was the only scholar she knew. “I told him you were out, but he claimed he could wait, and that it was of great importance--certainly the behavior of a gentleman, for  _important_  folk think the world must stop for them--”

“Yes, that is quite enough, Mrs Lenar, we shall see him, I suppose, though I own I do not see why you could not send him away.” Ellana followed him, curious to see the man herself. “I cannot think what sort of a person comes into a man’s home at such an hour and cut up his peace,” he grumbled. They entered the sitting room in succession, and the man rose to bow as if it were the commonest thing in the world.

“Well,” Mahanon greeted him, not bowing himself, “you must be our mysterious visitor.” The man was an Elf, shabbily-dressed, but neat and clean, angular in his features and bald as an egg. Ellana had the strangest impression she knew him from somewhere. “As you are clearly acquainted with us, I would appreciate it if you would acquaint  _us_  with  _you_.”

“I must apologize for my intrusion. I am Solas, an itinerant scholar, and I am in fact here to see the young lady of the house.” His manners were surprisingly pleasant, but Ellana frowned, unable to tear her eyes from the stranger and equally unable to respond.

“What business should you have with my cousin?”

“She might best be able to answer that for herself--I have been trying to contact her for the best part of the week.”

“We have received no letters, no messages from anyone we do not know, and we neither of us--”

Ellana realized where she had seen the man before, and shook her head to clear it, reaching for Mahanon’s arm. “It’s alright, cousin--we’ve met.” The man smiled gently, quickly. “Ah, you recall.” “--under a hedgerow,” Ellana could not help but finish, and curtseyed as the man seemed to hold down a laugh.

Mahanon looked between the two of them, stunned out of words. “Well then,” he said, gesturing wildly as Ellana tried and failed not to stare at the man, who looked back at her evenly, “if he was in the hedgerow, then he can’t possibly be any trouble. By all means, make yourself at home, Messere Hedgerow.”

“But Mr… Mr Solas, we have had no contact since that time, and you said you had been trying to speak to me all the week long,” she inquired.

“Just Solas, if you please--and do you not recall any strange dreams?”

Her eyes widened, and then narrowed. “I do not know what game you play, sir, coming here--”

“Has nothing odd happened this week? Pets acting strangely, the dreams? Was your hair not dark when we met? I believe I have the explanation.” Mahanon and Ellana looked to one another, and back to the man by the fire, whose downturned eyes seemed to glow with some knowledge, some delightful secret.

“Miss Lavellan, it falls to me to inform you that you are, in fact, a mage. One of the first in 800 years, if my estimation is correct. I’ve come to offer my services as your tutor.” Whether it be exhaustion, inebriation, or shock, it was at that moment that Ellana Lavellan, first mage in 8 centuries, wavered on her feet and swooned inelegantly into the man’s arms.

After looking at the presented tableau for a moment, Mahanon commented with astonishing equanimity, “well, her parents are going to be  _immensely_  put out.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one fought me, but i'm thrilled to say it's here, and things are starting to heat up! hopefully not too much worldbuilding, a few cameos, etc--i'm finally exiting the setup stage so everything will start to happen soon.

**Author's Note:**

> i can't believe i've gotten myself into this
> 
> hold onto your bonnets kids it's gonna be a wild ride
> 
> ((the biggest thanks in the WORLD to perry, without whose brainstorm help this universe would not exist, and whose lavellans ghilani and vega (under the default name) appear in this chapter))


End file.
